


The Sign Of The Lollipop

by FyrMaiden



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4390634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine and Sam are best friends, and also play school co-ordinators.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sign Of The Lollipop

**Author's Note:**

> This was a half-finished draft I posted on tumblr a while ago, in the sense that I never quite worked out how to get the ending to land and wasn't invested enough in it to find a beta to help me. Posting as is. :)

Blaine is a play co-ordinator for pre-school age children. He’s good at his job. He loves it. When he was 18 he’d honestly believed his future was on the stage but, ten years later, he’s far more fulfilled fostering the creativity of three year olds. Blaine’s enthusiasm is infectious. The children love him and his easy demeanour puts their parents at ease. Blaine is affable, affectionate and approachable, and he’s very good at what he does. He enjoys being painted on, likes guessing whether it’s a rhinoceros or an elephant (or, once, a scale-free mouse) that’s been daubed in grey and pink onto art paper, and he loves Friday afternoons when they dust off the piano and sing nursery rhymes together, or whatever other child-friendly age-appropriate tune Blaine has up his sleeve. 

He’s equally well-liked by the staff and, when Sam Evans (“Remember me?!” Sam enthuses over Skype until Blaine is laughing so hard he can’t breathe because, “Sam, it’s been eighteen months, not years!”) asks him about work in New York, it’s almost enough to make Blaine believe in God again. One of the women he works with is leaving, he suggests, partly because she’s pregnant and partly because her husband has a job in Germany. Maybe Sam could apply. He jumps through all the New York hoops to work with children in the state, and finds a room with a lesbian couple and their cats in time to pick up the new school year in September. Together, they’re a dynamic duo again, and Sam makes Blaine laugh uncontrollably when they stop by the deli for sandwiches on their lunch break. 

Blaine is almost always smiling when he gets home from work. It’s Kurt’s favourite thing about his husband’s job. His least favourite thing – or so he says, when he’s washing silver shimmer from his own skin - is the pervasive ability of glitter and glue to wind up in places that neither have any place being. 

— 

Blaine always showers when he gets home. Some days, Kurt is already there, sitting on their couch with a bowl of popcorn within reach, watching reruns of Say Yes To The Dress or early cycles of America’s Next Top Model. He glances up when the door closes, grins sheepishly, and gestures his work book. “Can I pretend it’s research?” he says, and Blaine laughs and leans over the back of the couch to kiss him gently.

“No. But I love you anyway.”

Kurt would never admit it, but he secretly loves it when Blaine comes home with paint in his hair and purple stars in the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. He enjoys listening to Blaine talk about his kids and the potato print war they had with Sam’s group, and Kurt’s only input is to smile and trace the bright orange leaf on Blaine’s tan forearm and comment that it explains a lot.

“I’m glad you managed to persuade Sam to move,” he says, and leans in to kiss Blaine’s nose. 

— 

On days when Kurt isn’t already at home, Blaine washes paint from his skin and cleans the bathroom thoroughly. When Kurt gets in, Blaine has dinner warming in the oven and he’s dressed down in an old college sweatshirt and Marvel action figure lounge pants and gives off an air of being a responsible adult. Kurt likes to take a moment, on those evenings, working his way over Blaine’s body with his eyes (from his bare toes on their wooden floors – the only thing Kurt really honestly likes about their shoebox apartment - to the touselled, towel dried mess of his hair), to appreciate everything he has and to wonder how he got so lucky as to have this to come home to. 

“Good day?” he breathes into Blaine’s skin, and Blaine’s hand curls gently around his waist as he kisses Kurt hello.

“Mm.” 

“You smell good.”

“I think it’s probably the lasagne.” And then, “I made cheesy garlic bread. You can just have salad.”

“It’s fine. I’ll divorce you when you get fat.”

“Or I’ll just take advantage of your gym membership.”

Kurt laughs gently and pulls back from Blaine’s embrace. “Now you’re teasing. You know I can’t resist you when you’ve been working out.”

Blaine’s grin is warm and relaxed, and Kurt takes the opportunity to stare at his ass as he gets their dinner out of the oven. 

“You know,” he says, as Blaine plates up. “If you promise to help me work it off, I’ll have garlic bread with you.”

Blaine arches an eyebrow at his plate. “Promises promises.”

He puts two slices on Kurt’s plate anyway.

— 

Then there are the difficult days, when a parent has been obstructive or rude. Blaine knows it’s not personal, that no parent enjoys being told that their child is misbehaving or acting out, but it doesn’t soften the blow to have it thrown back at him that he wouldn’t know what it’s like, would he, because he doesn’t have children of his own. It’s true. He doesn’t. It’s not for want of trying, though. Adoption is difficult, and surrogacy is expensive. His job doesn’t pay well, and Kurt’s unpredictable hours and income don’t look good on applications anyway. The difficult days include days when his sexuality is raised as a concern (again, still, because it doesn’t stop) by a parent who shouldn’t know that much about Blaine to begin with. Difficult days are when Sam grabs Blaine’s bag at the end of the day, grins his broad surfer grin, and says they need a drink and… “Not Hooters,” Blaine says, holding up a finger. “Last thing I need today is nipple tape masquerading as underwear.”

“What if we go shamelessly objectify guys instead?”

“No naked flesh,” Blaine checks his watch and rolls his head with a sigh. “Sports bar, nachos and cheap beer?”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Sam flirts and Blaine laughs, and they invariably wind up sharing something Kurt would disapprove of drowning in Monterey Jack and at least 40% of their saturated fat allowance for the day. Blaine knows it’s a sacrifice Sam makes for him, because - despite being in great shape - Sam still obsesses about body fat in a way that Blaine doesn’t think is healthy.

Kurt recognises bad days from the way Blaine curls into his corner of their couch, his hands lost inside the sleeves of one of Kurt’s old sweatshirts, his feet drawn up inside his pyjama pants, his eyes fixed resolutely on the mute moving images of a Friends marathon, or reruns of classic How I Met Your Mother. Even on bad days, Blaine is showered and smells like shampoo and body wash and a deep, pervasive him that Kurt sometimes can’t believe he nearly lost forever. He leans over the back of the couch and presses his lips to Blaine’s hair, squeezes his shoulder gently. 

“Need to vent?” he asks softly, and Blaine either nods his head and unfurls himself to follow Kurt into the kitchen, where he will sit on the counter nursing tea and stealing bites of whatever Kurt decides to cook, or he will shake his head and continue staring resolutely at the TV until Kurt has made them something to eat. If it’s the latter, Kurt has learned not to be offended when Blaine eats two mouthfuls and leaves the rest cooling on the coffee table when he decides he actually needs human contact more than he needs food and curls himself tight into Kurt’s side. On the really bad days, Kurt is quietly thankful that they don’t have children of their own, because he’s not sure he could deal with everything by himself.

—

The bad days are infrequent, though. Blaine is more likely to bounce through the door with a rolled up collage that his kids made for him, a smudge of paint behind his ear that he missed, and a grin splitting his face in two than he is to come home and let their shower sluice another day down the drain. He comes home vibrating with excitement to tell him about the funny way Olivia has started reciting the alphabet to him, or the way Michael has developed a strange and disturbing obsession with sharks, or how Jordan (“He’s so cute, Kurt, you’d love him!”) has decided that pink ballet slippers are definitely something he wants to wear every day. He laughs with Kurt over lo mein about Karyn’s mom flirting with him (“I didn’t tell her,” he says, when Kurt raises an eyebrow, because the last time Blaine told one of his moms that he didn’t think his husband would approve, it had been playground gossip before the last child had been collected. “I just said I was married and most definitely out of the game.”), and is slightly more flustered when one of his favourites that he absolutely does not have, a tiny thing called Effy (“She’s so cute, Kurt, her dad drops her off every morning and her hair is always in these adorable little bunches, and she’ll hate her hair when she’s older, because it’s a nest of curls but she’s so cute!”), says her daddys don’t live together anymore and she only sees her other daddy on weekends now. There’s no inflection in her voice, no sadness, it’s just the way her life is, but Blaine wants to hug her all the same. In another life, she could actually be his daughter, he thinks, and it chokes him slightly to even consider it. When another man drops her off one morning in early spring, Blaine feels his heart leap. She can’t wait to tell him about Doug, who boughted her ice cream and took her to the zoo and let her touch a snake. There aren’t many of his kids that Blaine genuinely thinks he’ll miss when they go on to school, but Effy is definitely on the list. She makes him wish, more than anything, that he and Kurt had kids of their own.

— 

Then there are the days when Blaine and Sam bundle through the door together, both talking at once, Sam making himself at home in their kitchen whilst Blaine raids their refrigerator for beer and food. The beer is usually forthcoming, but food winds up being pizza or something from one of the myriad takeaway menus pinned to the fridge door for just such emergencies. When he orders in, Blaine tries to make sure to get something he knows Kurt will eat as well and refuses adamantly to let Sam pay. (Sam invariably leaves his share of the cost under the fruit bowl for Kurt to find when he cleans the kitchen. Blaine isn’t unaware, but the ritual is so familiar now that neither of them confront its reality head on.) Blaine changes into something more comfortable than his work shirt, and Sam rifles through the stack of games beside the TV for something they’ll both enjoy. Blaine returns via the kitchen, his hair damp if not clean, and settles next to Sam on the couch before popping the cap of his beer.

“Ready?” he asks, and Sam nods amiably.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Sam is endlessly impressed by Blaine’s proficiency at first person shooting games, and Blaine is enamoured by Sam’s technical ability when it comes to fighting ones. Blaine himself mostly button mashes when Sam chooses fighting games, and laughs his way to an early defeat. It’s only on Fridays, when they can get very, very drunk, that they dig out dancing or singing games and pretend that the lounge is the old choir room and they’re both still 17. (Kurt gives them both a perfect 10 from where he sits on the couch, his feet tucked underneath him, nursing what is probably only his third beer. Blaine laughs and kisses him softly and, somewhere after midnight, Sam says he should probably make tracks. “Take the spare room,” Kurt says with a soft smile. “There’s no sense trying to get home now.” It’s such a tradition that Sam has spare pyjama pants tucked into a drawer, and Blaine knows how he takes his eggs.)

— 

Sam takes the spare room as well when his roommates decide they’re having a romantic evening for two. It only seems fair. Blaine and Kurt don’t mind. Sam packs earplugs and Kurt lends him his white noise machine and, if they do anything when he’s trying to sleep one paper thin wall away from them, then he is none the wiser. Blaine always seems looser on Sunday mornings when he persuades Sam to go running with him, warms down in the park before pulling $20 from the back of his phone case to get breakfast and the New York Times for Kurt on the way back. Knowing how close to broken Blaine had been their senior year, the way their Blaine and Kurt’s rhythm works together now impresses Sam endlessly. Time apart taught them that, at least. They learned effective communication and compromise are the keys to happiness. 

When Sam finds himself a girlfriend and moves a little further away, Blaine has a moment of blind panic that everything will change. It doesn’t. Blaine still comes home covered in glitter and Sam still helps himself to cheese and grapes and Kurt still interrupts their 80s movie marathons to remind them that he pays half of the rent and definitely the cable and he’d like, if it’s not a huge imposition, to watch My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. “Yes, for the ninth time. I mean, the dresses have animatronic butterflies, Blaine.” 

“They scar the girls’ hips, Kurt.”

Blaine glares at Kurt, and Kurt stares back, eyes narrowed, prepared to argue.

“Blaine, change the channel.” 

“Kurt, come on. You’ve seen it before.”

“And you’ve seen Footloose!”

“We can go back to mine,” Sam offers and Blaine offers him a lopsided grin before glancing back at Kurt.

“Go. God, just go.”

Blaine offers him a kiss before grabbing his keys and his jacket. “I’ll be back later. I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I love you too. Please go.”

(Without fail, Kurt rings him by 10.30 on those nights. “Are you coming home? I’m sorry. I love you.” Blaine smiles into the phone and covers his face with his hands. “Yeah. I’m just leaving. Love you more.” It’s been a long time since he worried whether or not that was true, but he feels his heart expand every time Kurt calls him to effectively say that their bed is cold without him in it. Getting to fall asleep pressed against Kurt’s body is still one of his favourite things, and the thing that makes Kurt’s trips away the hardest to bear. They’re much better with Skype and their imaginations now, though, and Kurt is far better at actually getting the words past his lips to keep Blaine edging for hours. Still, Kurt’s phone calls always make him feel 18 again; desperate and horny and eager to get home.)

— 

Blaine enjoys birthdays with his kids. For his birthday, they have a picnic (provided by judicious parents, including whichever one it is that thinks children want to eat carrot batons when there’s cake available) and cakes, provided by Kurt, and they all sit outside in the sunshine. Sam joins them shortly, and Blaine shields his eyes and says it’s just as well Kurt over compensates for the sweet tooth of pre-schoolers.

“Mm,” Sam says, swallowing half a cupcake in one bite and almost choking. “Blame Kurt. Is he picking you up?”

“I’m turning 30,” Blaine sighs dramatically, and grins. “Yeah. He’s got us late tickets for something Rachel was enthusing about last month.”

“The Broadway!” Sam says, imitating the scrolling marquee with his hands. “And I thought you were the straight one, once.”

“You… huh?”

“Comic books and video games and college football. I never figured you for Vogue and Black Friday bargain hunting and Saturdays at the spa.”

“I’m-” Blaine tilts his head and laughs, deep in his throat, until his ribs ache. “It’s not mutually exclusive, Sam.”

“Yeah. Well, I know that now.”

Blaine grips his friend’s shoulder tightly. “I’m glad to know you, man.” 

“Yeah,” Sam nods enthusiastically. “You, too.” He looks around then, finds Timothy eating mud and grass and rolls his eyes. “Remind me again why we do this?”

Blaine shrugs and rests back on his elbows, stares up at the sky for a moment and thanks Heaven for his friends.


End file.
